


A Time for Wolves, Fire and Winter

by Thestarksofwinterfell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - The Red Wedding, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, F/M, Happy Starks, Post-Season/Series 06, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-11-29 04:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11433057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thestarksofwinterfell/pseuds/Thestarksofwinterfell
Summary: An alternate universe where Catelyn and Robb are spared at the famous Red Wedding, instead being confined in cells, with the whole world believing they're dead.How will their escape and return to the outside world impact the events in Game of Thrones?Stark-centric story.Reviews keep me going :)





	1. Madness

 

 

Darkness, it swarmed him from every side. But he knew that if he strained his tired eyes just enough, he’d be able to make out the small interior of his cell and the bars that kept him inside. He knew that if he squinted hard enough, across the room, the pale form of his mother could be visible. How it pained him to see her, even through the darkness. He could tell her once proud auburn hair was a matted mess, how her beautiful face had become frail and gaunt. She sat in the same position, barely moving, with her thinning body slumped lifelessly against the metal bars in her cell.

After the Wedding, when he and his mother and all the surviving Northerners were first dragged into their cells, he was sure their deaths were imminent. Each time a guard or a jailer entered the room where the prisoners were kept, he drew in his breath, waiting for them to be hauled out of their cells, heaved into the blinding daylight and be beheaded, _if the Freys had enough honour to give such swift deaths_ , he would always add, feeling a scowl appear on his face. But it never happened. No beheadings. No being dragged out of cells. _Nothing… nothing except the torment._

Edmure… he was an exception. He had been dragged out, taken away. His Uncle had also been thrown back into his cell a few moons after. _No beheadings_. Edmure never told him, his mother or anyone else of what occurred during his short period of time back in the world…

 

Over his time in the cell somewhere in the Frey’s dungeons, the guards had created some sort of game. To him, there seemed to be one rule… torture him, his mother or any other Lords inside the dungeons with scraps of information- information regarding Westeros and the people in it. Of course, the Frey guards favoured the information about the remaining Starks; how they were alive… or dead, the stories changed from guard to guard. And each time he had no knowledge of what was true and what was simple deception. Sometimes they talked about Arya Stark, how she had been raped and killed by the Bolton’s bastard, while other times they changed their tales and suggested she was alive, but being tortured by her Bolton husband. On other occasions, Sansa was the one who was married to Ramsay Snow, or the one who had been slaughtered.

Sometimes they talked about Arya Stark, how she had been raped and killed by the Bolton’s bastard, while other times they changed their tales and suggested she was alive, but being tortured by her Bolton husband. On other occasions, Sansa was the one who was married to Ramsay Snow, or the one who had been slaughtered.

Each time the guards played that game, his mother would plead for them to stop, the pain of being ignorant to her children’s fates tearing her apart. And when they ignored her, she would begin to wail and scream, the sounds echoing all-around the dungeons the way her screams had during the Wedding, after her blade had slashed Lady Frey’s throat.

In that moment during the wedding, Robb Stark thought he was going to die. He thought that Roose Bolton’s pale blue eyes would be the last thing he would ever see when the cruel Lord began to approach him, a dagger gripped firmly in his hand. He had given one last desperate glance at his dead wife, blood pooling all around her, and another last look at his mother, listening to Bolton’s nearing strides.

The word “Mother.” Had left his lips, when the sudden sound of a blade entering someone’s flesh caught his attention. Realising, to his shock that it was not his own body the sound came from, and noticing the sound of footsteps had abruptly stopped, Robb slowly motioned his head in the direction of the noise.

The whole hall fell silent.

Roose Bolton was dead. There was a large, gaping gash in Bolton’s neck. His blue, stone cold eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, his scarlet blood seeping through his chainmail, accumulating onto the floor. A man Robb recognised as Black Walder was standing above his corpse, the dagger stained with Bolton’s blood clasped in his hand.

From that moment, one question lingered in Robb’s mind, persistently pestering him.

_Why did the Freys kill Roose and spare us?_

Over the time he had spent in his cell however, Robb had begun to accept the fact that he would never have an answer to his burning question given to him, with Robb receiving only japes meant to mock him and cruel remarks from the guards that were stationed inside the dungeons.

One of the Frey guards was particularly disliked by Robb, with his raspy voice carrying such poisonous words that wounded his spirit on very occasion that the japes and comments shot from his mouth.

“The whole world thinks you’re dead,” were the words that hurt Robb the most. Not because they were distinctly cruel, or because they were especially malicious. They hurt him because it was the only thing about Westeros he knew for certain was true. Robb knew that his remaining family, however few they were now, had grieved for him and moved on, he knew that the North had a new Warden of the North, and that every person outside the Twins had heard of how Robb Stark, his Lady mother and the other Northerners were massacred at the Twins, dead to the world.

The guard’s words reminded Robb that no help was coming and that no help would ever come.

 _If they don’t kill us, we’ll rot in here. Through Summer, Autumn… Winter…_ Robb shuddered at that, _Gods, I’ll spend Winter in here._

Robb was sure that he would one day go mad.

 _Every day, the madness looms in the back of my head, threatening to invade._ He gave another look to his mother, feeling insanity creep closer each time he saw her in her frail state.

Despite the pain of seeing Catelyn Tully, Robb forced himself to stare, long and hard. _I have to face up to what I did… to what I have caused._ Watching her from his cell, he thought sadly, _she is here because of me. I broke an oath… she is here because of me… they are all here because of me._ Robb focused on his mother’s small form, taking in every mark of pain, visible even in the darkness of the dungeons. _I need to punish myself…_ Robb thought desperately, realising instantly how crazed his thoughts were slowly becoming.

There was another time where Robb had been pushed too close to the realm of madness. _The pain hurt so much I needed to escape…_ Robb surmised, wincing as the emotions flooded back to him. But he compelled himself to recount the story none the less.

It was soon after he and the others were dragged down into the dungeons. He was woken up from his slumber by the bawdy singing of the Frey men, with Black Walder accompanying them. Robb initially was drawn to the song which filled the cells- The Rains of Castamere, obviously some attempt to express the victory of the Lannister’s. However, Robb quickly noticed that some of the men were carrying something…

 _Food perhaps?_ Robb had thought hopefully.

However, as the men drew closer, Robb began to doubt that. _What is it?_ He asked himself as he noted the size and shape of what the men carried. _Is it water?_ _Chamber pots?_ No… it’s too large.

His confusion quickly subsided however, when the men placed whatever it was in front of his cell. His nose was instantly hit by a foul stench, and he saw two familiar brown eyes blankly staring back at him.

“No…” He managed to say.

_Not her…_  
_Anyone but her…_

Robb cried out instantly, retreating to the corner of his cell, practically slamming himself against the wall, while the deep laughter of Black Walder echoed throughout the cells. But Robb didn’t focus on that. All he could see and smell and sense was the corpse of his dead wife, dumped carelessly onto the stone floor so close to where he cowered in fear and grief… _oh, the grief._

Once the shock and horror of seeing her had finally left him, he slowly crept over to where her corpse lay. Robb could hardly look at her. Her skin already appeared to have discoloured, with her naked body looking strange and pale. Her eyes were so blank, and her stabbed belly was very much visible in the darkness, dried blood covering her abdomen where his child once grew.

The Freys began to laugh, the sick sound ringing in Robb’s ears for days after.

“I’d fuck her, best do it soon before that beautiful body of hers rots.” One of them sneered.

“May I present, Queen Talisa Stark, wife of his grace Robb Stark.” Another mocked.

The last comment stuck with Robb; “Your Grace, this could have all been avoided had you married a Frey as your supposed Stark honour promised and assured us. Instead you broke your oath for this foreign whore.”

They left her body in the dungeons for weeks after, her smell getting worse, her face changing into that of any dead corpse. He no longer recognised her. It was a constant reminder of what he had lost… _and why I lost it._

He was so close to madness he wanted the insanity to take him, to distract him, to free him.

But they took her corpse away eventually, the Freys remarking she’s to be dumped into the river. After that Robb’s sanity began to fight back, and his mind was restored. _For better or for worse…_ Robb was not quite sure.

Robb didn’t know how long ago it was when they’d brought his wife into the dungeons, but judging by the amount his hair and beard had grown, he guessed about three years. _I can’t be certain._

On rare occasions, he would converse with his mother about their family. Despite how bittersweet those conversations always were, Robb knew they were the only times he enjoyed in his imprisonment.

“Sansa must be a real and great beauty, more beautiful than me now.” Catelyn would always tell him, her voice thick with emotion as the melancholy words left her lips. “And Arya… she must be as wild as ever, and maybe beautiful too.” She’d weep during these interactions, and Robb could never reach his mother to comfort her.

Neither of them knew what had happened to Arya and Sansa, but talking about them always brought relief to them. Conversing about happier times, when Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Jon and Ned were all safe in Winterfell also helped relieve the pain somewhat, though the memories served as a cruel reminder of all Robb had lost.

“Remember the time Arya got angry with Sansa and ripped half of her gowns apart? Sansa was in hysterics and Arya hid in Jon’s room for an entire day.” Robb recalled one day, laughing and feeling sad at the same time.

He heard his mother laugh, keeping the weak ghost of a smile on his own face for a few moments longer. But the smile disappeared as his mother’s laughter turned into sobs, growing louder and louder, sounding more and more desperate and grievous.

“I failed them, Robb.”

_No, I did._

“Mother, it is not your fault. The fault is m-” He began to tell her before being cut off by Catelyn.

“NO.” She exclaimed, voice breaking, “I should have never let them leave Winterfell… I should have never left.” She cried so loudly one of the guards began to menacingly stride up to her, getting ready to smack her over the head and tell her to be quiet. However, sudden screaming from somewhere above them stopped the man in his tracks.

The guards shared a look, with one of them saying “I’ll go see what the commotion is about. Stay ‘ere”

“If you need me upstairs, come fetch me.” The other said as the guard opened the door and left the dungeons.

As he listened in on the wails, confused and slightly alarmed, Robb noticed the screams grew louder, more piercing and more frequent. Robb, his mother, and all the other prisoners were deathly silent, wondering what could be going on upstairs to cause a chorus of frightened screams.


	2. The North Remembers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy this! Sorry for the slight delay, I was having problems with my internet connection a few days ago :/

Arya could feel so many memories return to her as soon as the castle of the Twins appeared in the distance, with every memory become more painful and more vivid as she neared the two looming towers. _The hope, watching the Twins from the hills while the hound ate his pork, eager to move on and see Robb and my_ _mother. I didn’t know I would never see them again…_ More and more images began to flash in her mind; _The wolf… Greywind, watching him get butchered…_ _seeing the Stark men get butchered… seeing the burning Stark banners… seeing Robb…_

_I was so useless…_ she thought bitterly, _cradled in the Hound’s arms!_ She muttered to herself, feeling the sadness being forced away by the anger that by now was all too familiar to her. A smile grew on her face as she added, _I won’t be useless today. Today I will be the one who causes bloodshed and death, not them._ She wanted vengeance, she _needed_ vengeance. Her lust for it burned somewhere deep inside her, _I can feel it…_ _and it only burns stronger and brighter when I’m here._

“The North Remembers.” Arya uttered as she sped up her horse. She had heard a man say those words in a tavern a few days ago, and then she saw that man be hauled outside by Frey soldiers, never to be seen again. Arya had repeated those words in her head, again and again as the man was beaten outside, his screams ringing in her ears.

_The North Remembers, the North remembers, the North remembers._

She decided that by killing Walder Frey, that she was avenging that man, too.

 

 

 

XX

 

 

 

Slipping into the vast castle of the Twins proved to be surprisingly easy, and Arya was quickly inside the halls and hallways of the keep, wearing a pretty peasant girl’s face. What had been even easier, however, was seducing two of Walder’s sons, Black Walder and Lame Lothar Frey and killing them both. They suspected nothing until she peeled the girl’s face off, revealing the face of Arya Stark underneath. She killed Lame Lothar first, leading him into an empty room, distracting him while he reached for her blade stashed in her boot, taking the peasant’s face off, and furiously stabbing the lanky man in the abdomen several times before announcing to the dying Frey who she was.

“I am Arya Stark, good-sister to my brother’s wife and aunt to his unborn child, both of whom you murdered.” She smiled then, watching blood stain Lothar’s clothing as he died.

She killed Black Walder next, once again announcing gleefully “I am Arya Stark, daughter of Catelyn Tully Stark, whose throat you slashed and whose body you dumped into the river.” She watched his beady eyes widen at the revelation, as she drew her blade to his throat, the same smile etching onto her face. Black Walder chocked on his blood as Arya’s knife cut into his meaty neck, making her smile widen even more.

Then, he said something strange, “I- I didn-.” His spluttering was making it hard for Arya to comprehend his words, but Arya felt sure he had started to say _I didn’t._ This perplexed her, causing her to furrow her brows in confusion as she watched the life drain from the Frey’s eyes. _What did he mean?_ She began to ask herself, before firmly shaking her stubborn head and assuring herself that the Frey was just attempting a desperate escape from his imminent death. _Cowardly stupid Freys,_ _to think they could avoid death by my hands after what they have done to my family!_

“Valar Morghulis.”

She recited her accustomed words after both killings because although she had left the mysterious House of Black and White behind, Arya knew that a part of her would always carry the weight of her time there, the rituals, what the Waif had taught her, the god of death, the faces which she possessed. _A part of me has_ _grown… for better or for worse._ In that moment, she glanced down at the pie she had carefully made in the kitchens, with Frey fingers and Frey skin visible in its grey meaty filling. Admiring her hard work, she grinned, telling herself “Definitely for the better.”

 

 

XX

 

 

Arya made sure to smile as she looked down upon Walder Frey’s horrified face, with her pie on the table, its human contents having been revealed. To her delight, the old man tried to make a pathetic escape, his ugly beady eyes frantically darting from her to the door. He hastily tried to stand up, but she was quicker. He tried hard to fight her off, but she was stronger. He pathetically tried to plead for his life with his ugly eyes, but Arya Stark had no mercy.

“My name is Arya Stark, I want you to know that. The last thing you’re ever going to see is a Stark smiling down at you, as you die.” And then she smiled; she smiled when she said her words, she smiled when the blade met his throat, she smiled as blood fountained from his neck. But her smile faded when she heard the man’s pathetic last words, “Not… dea-” She was once again perplexed. _What does he mean?_ She couldn’t ask him of course, since his body was lifeless and motionless, his face contorted into a twisted pained expression. That alone brought the grin back onto her face, growing wider and wider as satisfaction washed over her.

_The North Remembers, The North Remembers, The North Remembers._

 

 

XX

 

 

_Gods… there are so many Freys,_ Arya mused, watching all of the male Freys enter the hall to break their fasts. She wore Walder Frey’s face over her own. _Dead_ _Walder Frey’s face,_ she added, joyfully. They all filed in, sitting into their seats, making bawdy jokes, taking no notice of Arya, sitting in their dead father’s seat, wearing their dead father’s face.

Servants came in next, carrying steaming dishes of porridge. Arya noticed how some of the servant girls were grabbed by the Frey men, in a similar manner in which Lord Walder had grabbed her before his death. She knew she mustn’t scowl, so she had to turn her attention elsewhere, as she knew she surely would if she looked at the disgusting Freys abusing the poor girls for any longer amount of time. She dismissed all the servants to avoid giving the poor girls any more grief. “Do not disturb us until I say so!” She ordered in Walder Frey’s voice as the girls scurried away and the Frey guards marched out of the room, leaving only Arya and the Freys inside.

Soon, her eager ears picked up the voice of one of the many Frey’s asking, “Where is Black Walder?” Many scanned the room for their brother in response, all of their heads turning simultaneously, only to find no Black Walder. How stupid of them! Arya had to supress her urge to laugh.

“And what about Lothar? Where is he?” The Freys all once again stupidly searched the room for Lame Lothar, and obviously found nothing.

One of the Freys turned to her, speaking carefully, “Father, have you seen them?”

“No… how strange.” Arya replied, Walder Frey’s gruff voice filling the room. Her response clearly caused alarm in some of the men, with one of them widening his eyes. She ignored this reaction, continuing to speak in Walder Frey’s voice, “No matter. I’m sure they can be found somewhere. Now, let’s eat!” She raised her cup in the same way Walder Frey had during the feast with the Lannisters a few weeks prior, motioning for all the Freys to eat their porridge.

She watched eagerly as every son tucked into his food, with some finishing their food in mere seconds. One of the sons ate his porridge particularly fast, devouring the contents of his bowl in a blink of an eye. He was the first to fall asleep, his large head plunging hard onto the table, creating a loud sound.

Some of them began to laugh, with one of them remarking “What a damn fool Patreck is! Already passed out, the drunken fool!” That man was the next to fall, his laughter being cut off by the sound of his body falling onto the floor.

“What the-” Another Frey said, before also slumping onto the floor.

Some of the Freys were starting to panic, with men jumping up from their chairs before collapsing themselves. A few managed to run a few steps, some even got as far as the next table along, one man reached the door, but they all fell victim to the poison, sooner or later.

 

 

XX

 

 

_Is this what the Red Wedding looked like?_ Arya asked herself as she stared over the mass of Frey corpses spilled over the floor and tables, with half-eaten bowls of poisoned porridge splattered all over the place. Narrowing her eyes, Arya said “No.” _There is no red blood,_ she added wickedly, knowing exactly what she would do next.

First, she removed Lord Walder’s old foul face, nonchalantly discarding it on the table, grinning from ear to ear as she watched it fall into the scattered corpses.

_The North Remembers, The North Remembers, The North Remembers._

Then, she hauled old Walder’s corpse into the hall. Much to her disappointment and her dismay, she noticed that his blood had dried onto his clothing, no longer bright red and sticky, instead feeling rough and course, an unappealing brown colour. _Not red enough_.

“I guess I’ll have to make do…” She said aloud, gazing over the mass of corpses that lay before her. She grabbed the corpse of one of the men who had grabbed the servants, whose face was frozen in an expression of terror, which made Arya beam down at her work even more. She plunged her blade into his neck, and watched as the blood oozed out, soaking her fingers.

_The North Remembers._

She painted the words on the wall in large, clear crimson letters.

_The North Remembers._

The Frey blood dripped from the wall onto the floor, a heavy metallic and sweet smell wafting into the room.

_The North Remembers._

Arya tied Walder’s corpse up by the arms and hoisted him up against the wall, having attached some rope to a hook onto the ceiling, decorating her art piece. As a final finishing touch, she brought her prized pie onto the table, lifting the pastry back over the filling.

Taking a few steps back, Arya admired her work. Walder’s body hung limply between the words _The North_ and _Remembers._ Freys intricately adorned her hard work, with their blood soaking the walls.

“The Red Wedding.” She muttered, with her eyes shining at the beautiful sight. She laughed, the merry sound echoing around the room.

_And not a soul to hear, not_ _even Cersei Lannister._

 

 

XX

 

 

Arya already missed needle and she had an aching feeling by her hip where her sword should be. She would have liked to have been able to kill the Freys with needle, but Arya knew that peasant kitchen maids and serving girls were not supposed to carry swords, especially in castles. _I needed to play the part, it makes the_ _end result even better,_ she thought, still feeling a great sense of satisfaction and pride after what she had done. However, Arya’s longing for her needle was beginning to irritate her and spoil her mood, so she urged herself to walk faster, back towards where she had entered a few days earlier, with needle waiting for her somewhere nearby. She wasn’t sure where she was going to go after she left the Twins, but she was sure she wanted to leave the wretched Twins so that she could continue with her list. _Kingslanding perhaps? Cersei, Ilyn Payne and the Mountain will be there,_  she thought, a million questions swarming her buzzing mind, _where_ _would the Red Witch be?_ _What about Beric and Thoros of Myr? Where would they be?_ Just as she was about to delve deeper into her theories on the locations of Beric and Thoros, her pondering was interrupted by a sudden scream.

It was piercing and loud, _so very loud._ Another three screams followed after the first, all of the voices screaming so loudly Arya was sure her ears would burst.

_I guess someone found my work,_ she thought, a smirk forming on her face.

After a few seconds, all Arya could hear was a chorus of terrified screams and wails, getting louder and louder, sounding more and more terrified. Arya listened for a while, feeling satisfaction burn inside her once again. After a few minutes of listening, Arya heard footsteps from somewhere nearby, sounding like someone was approaching up a flight of stairs. And after following the sound, her theory was confirmed, with a Frey guard marching up the stairs, clearly following the screams, his face scrunched up. After watching him walk away, Arya wondered where he came from. She was on the bottom level of the Twins, where the kitchens and servant’s quarters were.

_Where did he come from? Why is he armed?_

And then it came to her; _he must have come from the dungeons! There are prisoners down there!_

_The North Remembers, The North Remembers, The North Remembers._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to start off by thanking all those who left kudos and comments on my last chapter! It really made me happy to see people actually like my work haha. 
> 
> In this chapter, you'll see Arya is very dark, and I in no way think it's ethical to kill all the Frey males like that, given that I'd assume that some of them are/were nice people, but Arya has a different and more damaged mindset, with her seeing this as justice. 
> 
> Once again, please leave kudos, or even better a comment. You have no idea how they brighten my day and also motivate me!


	3. The North will not need to Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I had a writing block and I was finding it hard to write a Catelyn POV. Plus, I am on holiday, meaning I don't always have a network connection :/ But anyways, I hope you all enjoy this! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT :)

 

 

 

“Why do you think they’re screaming?” Catelyn Stark didn’t know what to reply to her son, nor did she know what he felt inside as he said those words, his tone a complete puzzling mystery to her. She bit her tongue, feeling a lump in her throat, knowing she would surely have tears flowing down her face was she not so dehydrated.

I hardly know my son anymore. _I can’t tell if he sounds hopeful or fearful, upset or angry. I have failed him, as much as I failed all of my children,_ Catelyn thought, feeling a mixture of bitterness and sorrow swell inside of her.

“Mother?” Robb asked again. She lifted her head vaguely in the direction where she presumed her son was sitting, her eyes widening when she realised that Robb was standing, his hands tightly gripped to the cell’s iron bars to support his now-fragile frame. Catelyn hadn’t seen her son stand in months… _or was it years?_ “Something’s happening.”

“Robb-” She began to respond, noticing how the screams from upstairs were beginning to fade.

He cut her off, “Mother! When was the last time the guards have been alarmed? They are worried! Couldn’t you hear it?” At Robb’s comment, Catelyn could hear murmurs of agreement from all the other Northern prisoners, which was something rare as the other prisoners scarcely said anything. Catelyn listened in on the Northerners, hope evident in their voices, unsure of what to say or feel herself. “Mother! Something is going on!” Robb said for the third time, his voice somehow getting louder, stronger. “LISTEN to me!”

She then heard the lone guard’s frustrated grunt. “Will you shut the fuck up?” He barked, storming towards Robb, “Seven ‘ells, nothing is ‘appenin ‘ere…” The sound of the dungeon door swinging open caused the brutish man to trail off, the man turning his head in the direction of the door as light momentarily filled the room before fading, leaving the room to become dark once more. The guard cleared his throat and hastily drew his sword, with the sound of his feet clumsily shuffling around the room bouncing around the room. 

“Who’s there?” He called out hesitantly, with the only response to his question that he received being the sound of silence that suffocated the room afterwards. The silence dragged on, with no one in the room saying or doing anything, not the guard, not any Northerner, or Edmure or Robb or her. And although she could barely see anything in the blackness all around her, Catelyn knew that there was complete stillness holding the room, as a prisoner of sorts. 

But then a voice broke the moment, a voice saying words that sent an eerie chill down Catelyn Stark’s spine; “The North Remembers.” The body of the guard dropped to the floor in what seemed like seconds after those words were spoken. A sound of gurgling blood followed.

She was stunned into silence. She had a million questions on her mind, a million things she wanted to ask, a million answers she needed to receive. A million words stuck inside her throat. But she could focus on only one thing; _I recognize that voice. I can’t speak, but I can remember…something about that voice…_ But she couldn’t place it, even with that voice saying those words ringing in her head, she couldn’t recall a time she had heard a voice so hateful, and cold and angry, a voice so destroyed.

_The only thing I can gather from the voice’s owner is that she’s a female._

“Who are you?” The question brought her back from her thoughts. One of the Northerners had asked it, sounding curious and equally scared. 

“Justice.” The voice replied, once again allowing stillness to creep back into the room, with everyone too perplexed to speak. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of the door swinging open once more as the woman exited, allowing Catelyn to catch a glimpse of her from behind.

_Gods, she is small!_ She thought, _how someone so small can kill like that…_ She stared at the corpse, covered in his blood on the floor in the momentary light that filled the room.

“What in the God’s name was that?” Great John Umber sputtered as the prisoners were once again left in the darkness.

No one answered, with the door swinging back open, revealing the woman once more, her small frame holding a bright flaming torch.

The room was restored to light, and Catelyn could now see the woman clearer.

_Nothing in her is familiar,_ she thought sadly as she scanned the woman’s face for any sign that she had ever known her. But her small brown eyes, calm expression, small button nose, thin lips and dirty blonde hair stirred up nothing in Catelyn.

She finally found the words to speak, “Who are you?” Catelyn’s voice was weak, but the woman whipped her head round to look at her as soon as spoke, almost as if she was in alarm.

To Catelyn’s dismay, the woman’s eyes grew wide, her face paling. The calm expression was gone, taken and replaced by one of horror… or fear. “No…” Was all that left her lips before the girl threw herself away from Catelyn.

“No…” Was all that left her lips before the girl threw herself backwards, away from Catelyn. “Catelyn Stark is dead!” The cool and collected woman’s voice was gone, replaced by a voice that sounded small… like a child’s.

_That voice… it sounds like…_

Catelyn was distracted by the girl, who was staring at her. Her eyes were wider than ever and she looked as timid as a mouse, as scared as a child having night terrors. But the girl approached despite the mask of terror on her face. She crept closer and closer until Catelyn Stark could clearly see the tears pooling in her eyes.

“Who are you?” She asked her one last time.

To her surprise, the girl lifted her hand to her face and peeled it off, like it was nothing but a mask or an item of clothing.

_A faceless man!_ She thought, unsure if she should panic or not.

But then Catelyn looked at her face, _her_ face. She saw _her_ large grey eyes, _her_ tangled messy brown hair, _her_ dimples, and she remembered.

_Gods… she’s so beautiful now…_

“Arya?” Her voice was choked by a sob that was caught in her throat, but Catelyn’s daughter understood. 

“Mother?” Her daughter cried, desperately reaching her hand into Catelyn’s cell and grasping Catelyn’s own hand. Catelyn held her daughter’s warmth, taking in every aspect of her as she tearfully felt her hand in her own.

_I can’t believe it… I can’t…_

Catelyn stroked Arya’s hair.

_No, she’s here…_

She ran her hand down her daughter’s cheek.

_This is happening…_

“Arya?” Robb half-sputtered, half-sobbed. _He can’t believe it either._

 

 

**XXXXXX**

**Robb**

 

 

“Arya?” One word. One word and her head turned. One word and he felt hope and happiness and every emotion he believed he would never, ever feel again crashed into his body.

She turned her head.

_Gods, she has grown…_ She turned her head and cried. She cried and she ran to him, saying “Robb” again and

She turned her head and cried. She cried and she ran to him, saying “Robb” again and

She cried and she ran to him, saying “Robb” again and again, like she was trying to convince herself that everything that was happening was actually happening.

“Let me get a look at you, sister.” He said, wondering if his crying made his words impossible to understand.

But she understood.

She came closer to Robb, laughing and weeping simultaneously as she brought her face to Robb’s.

_Mother was right, she has become beautiful,_ he thought as he looked upon her face; her features had spaced out in just the right way, and her grey eyes shone, like pools of water. _Arya_ horse face _, underfoot… those names are no more._

“I’m going to get you out of here.” She said, her voice hardening as she turned back to mother.

Her eyes flicked to the dead guard. She strode to the body and pulled out a set of keys.

“I, Arya Stark will free every prisoner in this room!” Her voice rang throughout the dungeons, with the Northerners all responding with deep laughter and cheers. Robb was about to join them when his eyes were drawn back to the corpse that lay bloodied on the floor.

It quickly dawned on Robb;

_Arya **killed** him..._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR READING! This probably wasn't my best chapter, but I hope you all enjoyed the reunion nonetheless! I don't know when the next update will be, as I won't have wifi next week, but I'll try my best :)PLEASE COMMENT! You have no idea how much I love a good comment!


	4. A Person of death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all; SORRY. I am sorry for making you all wait more than a month for an update. I was rather busy over the summer and simply didn't have the time or motivation to write. Please note that I would never abandon this fic without saying something. I hate when authors abandon their works randomly, not telling their readers anything. 
> 
> I can't promise updates will be weekly (I'm just not that kind of writer), but I'll try my best to write fast.

Arya could feel something burning in her heart… _joy? Relief? Hope?_

She fixed her gaze upon her mother, whom she was helping up the stairs that lead away from the dungeons and into the keep. Bones pressed through the fabric that was once her dress, her once proud hair hung limply, trailing down her back like pieces of limp string, her cheekbones that were once just another feature that complimented her mother’s face were now the only feature that Arya could focus on. Arya looked away.

_Grief? Guilt?_

 

She focused on the nearing hall where just an hour ago, she had slaughtered the male Freys, believing she was avenging her family. The heavy scent wafted into her nose again, the scent of dead Freys, the scent of blood. The scent of vengeance… Arya frowned then. _Vengeance?_ She glanced at Robb and her mother once again, trying to confirm that they were real. _They are alive_. _Is that vengeance?_ Arya recalled her time in the House of Black and White; everything she learned, every pain she endured, the Waif. _Was that all for nothing?_ She thought, her mind buzzing as the idea that she sacrificed who she was for nothing. Seeing Robb and Catelyn only heightened this feeling, because despite everything they had endured, despite their gaunt faces, hunger

Seeing Robb and Catelyn only heightened this feeling, because despite everything they had endured, despite their gaunt faces, hunger struck bodies and tangled, matted hair, Arya could see the spirits Robb and Catelyn Stark were still shining in their eyes. And seeing Robb and Catelyn Stark only reminded Arya of how much she had changed. Arya wasn’t even sure if her mother or her brother could see the spirit of who Arya Stark had been amongst all the hatred and blood and death and anger that haunted the new Arya’s eyes. _Will they see the person of death I have become or someone who should have been a person of life?_ She liked neither of those options.

 

The strong scent of blood threw Arya from her thoughts, becoming too heavy and pungent to ignore. 

“What’s that smell, Arya?” Robb asked her, his face locked in a frown as the smell hit him as well.

Arya didn’t know what to tell him. Arya didn’t know how to tell him, so she didn’t. She said nothing, and Robb’s question remained, hanging in the air unanswered.

“Arya?”

_Don’t tell him._

_You’ll lose them again._

_You’ll lose another piece of yourself again._

_You’ll stray closer and closer to no one until there will be nothing left!_

 

Robb tried to meet Arya’s eyes, but she looked away, whipping her head around only to be greeted by the watery gaze of her mother. Arya stared back, wanting desperately to peel away from those eyes that she once hoped she’d see again, but something prevented her from recoiling… something in those blue eyes of hers… something unreadable.

Her mother spoke then, her words and the emotions behind them just as obscure and indistinct and that look in her eyes; “What’s in that room?” Arya felt as though she had been brought to her knees after she heard the tone in her mother’s words.

_Mercy_ , she thought.

_Mercy, mercy!_

When she first tried to answer, her words were quiet, getting caught in her throat, tangled on her tongue, confused as they were uttered.

“The Freys.” She was sure her voice was completely unintelligible, but she could hear Robb gasp, and she could see her mother’s eyes widen… Rag _with shock? Fear?_   _Rage?_ Arya couldn’t tell. Silence. Arya could hear no shuffling of

Silence. Arya could hear no shuffling of

Arya could hear no shuffling of feet, or ragged breathing.

She could only feel the heavy weight of the stares and glares she received from the Northerners, stares and glares from her mother and brother. No voice came to break the silence, not even after what felt like minutes after her revelation.

So, Arya just stood there, unsure of what to do or say, unable to defend herself from the stares she was receiving. _I am a trained assassin… but they didn’t prepare_ _me for this._

 

“Show me.”

The voice caused Arya to turn her head, and as she did so, she was met with a pair of blue eyes, eyes like her mother’s. But the eyes hold the same emotion, weight and look as another pair of eyes that she had once known, _father_ … Just seeing that familiar gaze in her brother’s eyes brought Arya back to the time where she was a little girl, to when she was a scrappy horse faced child who didn’t leave a trail of bodies in her wake.

_That girl enjoyed playing in the mud and annoying her sister,_ Arya thought sadly, still staring at Robb. _Mother never liked that…_ She recalled as she glanced at Catelyn before turning back to Robb. _She wanted that girl to be a perfect Lady, like Sansa. But I never learned, despite all the punishments mother gave me. She could scream at that girl, force her into dresses, lock that girl in her chambers and nothing would ever change, because as soon as the screaming ceased, the dresses fell to the floor in crumpled heaps and the chamber doors became unlocked, that little girl would run outside and continue soiling her clothes in the mud._

_But, one weighty stare from her father’s_ grey _eyes would be enough to make Arya Stark crumble._ That’s when she knew she had done something wrong…

And that hasn’t changed…

 

 

**Robb**

 

 

When he saw it, Robb Stark was sure he would have vomited had he been fed something.

 

Blood stained the walls, the floor, the bodies. The bodies were spilling over each other, in messy piles. But as he lifted his gaze higher, the words “THE NORTH REMEMBERS” were written in…blood on the wall, and in front of those words, he saw another body, separate from the ones heaped on the floor;

_Lord Walder…_ face somehow gone, but still the weasel Robb remembers.

His breath caught in his throat.

Robb’s eyes roam over the corpse, taking in the missing face, the wide bulging eyes frozen in terror, the deep slash across his throat, the brown dried blood, the red blood, the blood…

_Blood…_

_Talisa bled when she was murdered…_

_…and so did my son…_

Robb could feel a sob threatening to escape his body, but by using whatever remaining strength he had left, he pushed it down. Instead, he casts his mind back to his father. His

Instead, he casts his mind back to his father. His honourable father. _Honourable. **This** is not _ honourable _._

He looks at the corpse once again. Strung up, limp, lifeless. _Slaughtered in his own home_. Robb focuses on the blood.

_It looks the same as Talisa’s blood, my son’s blood. It’s the same crimson_ colour _as the two Lannister boys, the men who died in my battles; Lannister and Stark._ _It_ _doesn’t matter whose blood it is,_ Robb thought, _the only thing that matters is the fact that the more people in this world bleed,_ _the more it will happen in the_ _future_. _Killing is not the answer._

It’s what he wants to tell his sister, but he is still too stunned at the realization that she did this.

_She. Arya Stark, Arya_ horse-face _, Arya underfoot, Wolf girl…_ _She once laughed and played in the mud, pranking Sansa and disobeying mother. And now she has_ _slaughtered fifty men at dinner._

 

Just as he thought things couldn’t get any worse, Robb sees something on Walder Frey’s table, directly below his hanging corpse. _A pie?_

“Arya, what’s that?”

Silence.

“Arya?” His mother questions, finding her voice once more.

Another silence follows before Arya replies.

“It’s a pie…” The next words horrify him even more than seeing Lord Walder’s corpse, “… made out of Black Walder and Lame Lothar Frey.” Her revelation causes everyone in the room to gag and retch.

Robb doesn’t want his sister to continue speaking, but words spew out of her mouth regardless, the harshness of each word spilling from his sister wounding, swarming, stabbing him. All the shyness and hesitation is gone, replaced by something frightening. _Anger, hatred, darkness;_  

“I served this pie to Lord Walder Frey before slitting his throat. I did it because I thought he killed you, because I thought it would bring you justice. Because though it isn’t honourable, it won’t get me killed. Honour killed father, honour could have killed you! Because he was on my list. I have a list because every time someone dear to me was taken from my life, my heart grew smaller and smaller until I was sure I could no longer continue surviving. So, my list grew bigger and bigger, names being added whenever a piece of me was removed. JOFFREY, CERSEI, THE TICKLER, POLLIVER, ARMORY LORCH, WALDER FREY, MERYN TRANT, TYWIN LANNISTER, THE RED WOMAN, BERIC DONDARRION, THOROS OF MYR, SER ILYN PAYNE, THE MOUNTAIN, THE HOUND! So many people… so many pieces of me that I will never get back!”

She is crying now, her voice becoming smaller and smaller. “I know I shouldn’t have done this… I knew when I looked into your eyes, Robb. Father’s eyes… they share the same look. You and f-fath…” Her voice trails off, being engulfed in a mess of tears and sobs and the sound of Arya crumpling to the floor. The sight makes Robb want to cry too.

“Arya…” His mother splutters, running to her daughter, her face awash with emotion as she envelopes Arya Stark into an embrace.

Robb can’t help but do the same, despite the knowledge of what his sister has become haunting him.

They lie in each other’s arms for some time, crying. With every sob, Robb could feel Arya’s pain, and he was sure that she could feel his too.

_Perhaps from now_ on  _,they’d understand each other._

 

 

**xXx**

 

 

The three of them were sitting in a room situated in the Twins. Arya had made sure Robb, Catelyn and all of the other prisoners had been bathed, fed and nursed back to health. Robb’s hair was no longer a matted mess reaching past his shoulders, and his skin had begun to look less pale. But it didn’t mean his mind was any less worried.

 

“Have you heard any news about Sansa, Bran, Rickon?” Robb asked Arya, “About Jon?” He added, avoiding his mother’s gaze. He held his breath waiting for the answer that would either elate Robb or destroy him.

“No.” She replied, looking at the floor. “I haven’t had a chance to ask any of the servants here about recent news regarding our pack… they seem afraid of me.”

Before he had time to respond, she continued. “But I found out something about Sansa…”

“What?” Catelyn spoke, her eyes wide in anticipation.

“I saw it in a Braavosi play.” _Arya in Braavos? Braavos?_ “In the play, Sansa was forced to marry Tyrion Lannister. Later, Joffrey was poisoned at his own wedding and it was revealed that Sansa and Tyrion had conspired to do it together.” There was no hiding the smile on Arya’s face as she mentioned Joffrey’s death, but that was not the detail he focused on; _Sansa is a killer too?_

“Do you know what happened afterwards?” He asked.

“I think Sansa escaped Kingslanding… but that was years ago, I think. Many things can happen in the space of a few years.”

 

After all the things Robb had seen in the past few days, he knew exactly just how true this statement was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! Comments motivate me so much :)  
> In the next chapter, we may be checking in on what's happening in Winterfell with Sansa and Jon.  
> See you soon (I hope!)


	5. The Lady of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit... I'm so very sorry for taking this long to write the chapter. I'm going to start writing the next one very soon.

**Winterfell**

**Two moons later**

 

 

“Jon?” Sansa Stark called out one last time, watching as her brother climbed atop his horse, his furs wrapped tightly around his body, as if they could protect him from whatever Daenerys Targaryen would throw at her brother.

He turned to face her, his gaze softening as it met her own concerned one.

“Just… please be careful.” Grey eyes met her blue ones and she knew Jon understood. He nodded, accepting the danger he would be in and rode away, emptying out Winterfell’s courtyard as his men followed suit. Before long, Sansa could no longer see his form, even from the high towering walls of Winterfell where she now stood, trying to catch one last glance of her brother. So, Sansa Stark turned the other way, to face the castle she was meant to look after.

 

Despite their missing King, the people of Winterfell were as busy as ever, the Lords were going about their usual business, the servants were scurrying around like normal and the children were training just as hard as they had been yesterday, their arrows flying everywhere but the targets. Seeing archery practice casted a sad shadow over Sansa, who recalled how accurately her sister always managed to hit the targets that the other children simply just couldn’t. Once, when Sansa had been young and naïve, seeing her sister do anything but Ladylike activities disgusted and irritated her to no end, but now, after years without seeing Arya’s wicked grin, remembering her younger sister’s talent with the bow and arrow caused a sad smile to tug at Sansa’s lips.

 _Where are you, Arya?_ Sansa thought, turning back round to the vast emptiness of the North. _It’s so lonely here with only Little finger’s company._

 

 

**XxX**

 

 

Sansa found she quite liked ruling, and though she suffered from a lack of decent company, except Brienne, she was easily able to occupy her time with duties around the castle for the past several weeks. Armour was made, people were trained, and through the gates of Winterfell, grain would flow through. Grain that was supplied to the North by Olenna Tyrell, who had agreed to assist Sansa Stark.

_But it’s not enough._

The Lady of Winterfell knew that one of her biggest responsibilities was keeping the entire North well fed, and she knew that now winter had come, soon even the fertile Reach would not be able to provide grain for the cold North. And although she never gave the common folk much notice in Kings landing, even that young, naïve version of Sansa had noticed their gaunt and hunger-stricken faces. _Hunger;_ that was the reason they attacked her, tore at her fine clothes and cursed her.

_Hunger turns people into beasts, I must prevent that._

 

Just as the Lady of Winterfell was rising from her chair and leave her bedchambers to perform her remaining duties, the letter caught her eye once more. Sansa Stark had received the raven a few days ago, sent from the Twins. Remembering its contents, she couldn’t resist and plucked the letter from her desk and read it again, smiling at the words written inside.

 

_To the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark_

 

 _As_ maester _of this castle, it is my duty to inform you that a person whose identity is unknown entered the Twins and slaughtered every male Frey inside._

_Following that event, the assailant is believed to have ventured into the dungeons and freed all of the Northern prisoners inside._

_Currently, the North is in your hands, making it your responsibility to decide the best course of action regarding this new development._

_Please note that many of house Lannister’s soldiers continue to reside in the area around the Twins._

 

_Signed, Maester Brennet, The Twins_

 

Sansa couldn’t help but smile at the thought that though the Freys had got her mother and brother, some Northerners had managed to survive the whole ordeal. The smile grew wider as she knew that house Stark still had supporters, even where the Freys had a hold over the lands and people.

 _But Lannisters?_ Her smile receded, being replaced by an uneasy feeling in her stomach. _I was left to the lions…No, I left myself to the lions_ , she thought, cringing at her past self’s stupidity. _The Lannisters tore me into pieces, I won’t let that happen again, not to me and not to any Northerner anywhere._

 

Sansa read the letter once more, and then wrote a letter of her own.

 

 

**XxX**

 

 

  **The Twins**

 

 

Arya still couldn’t believe it… _Jon and Sansa are alive. Jon and Sansa are alive!_

She had found out over a week ago, after going to the castle’s Maester, inquiring about any news, not expecting anything as surprising as what Maester Brennet had informed her of. Arya Stark was so shocked that she was frequently reminding herself of the fact, repeating it in her head.

_Jon and Sansa are alive. Jon and Sansa are alive. Jon and Sansa are alive!_

 

She was dismayed, she had to admit, when she learned of Sansa’s still living. Each time she thought of her sister, she struggled to see a strong survivor. Instead, all Arya could picture was the stupid, annoying perfect Lady that had always gushed over songs about perfect princes heroically rescuing their perfect princesses, the naïve girl whose blue eyes sparkled each time Joffrey gave her the tiniest bit of his oh-so-precious attention. But then Arya recalled the Bravoosi play, where it was she and Lord Tyrion who took down her perfect “one true love” Joffrey at his own wedding. _Could Sansa really be a killer…_ _like me?_

She let her own question hang in the air, unanswered.

 

And then there was Jon… _her favourite brother_ , with his rare but lovable smiles and brooding attitude that completely contrasted his beaming grins but only made him all the more lovable. She had longed for him and missed him, even in Braavos. Each time she had uttered the words _“I am no one”,_ her favourite brother’s smiling face would appear briefly in her mind, always close to her heart and her head, even when she could feel the rest of herself crumbling away and fading.

 

As soon as Arya had learned of Jon and Sansa and Winterfell, and convinced herself that they could truly be alive, she had rushed to tell her mother and Robb.

“Jon and Sansa are alive! They retook Winterfell from the Boltons and Jon is now King in the North!”

Robb’s mouth flew wide open, her mother cried out. Both gave a sigh of relief. But Arya could see through her mother; she cried for only one of her siblings, felt relieved to hear about only one survivor, while her face darkened when she heard of the other.

 

 

**XxX**

 

 

“Mother?” Arya asked once Catelyn had finished crying, “Here is Sansa’s letter, do you want to read it?”

Unsurprisingly, Arya’s mother eagerly took the letter, her watery eyes feasting over Sansa’s immaculately written words that brought more tears into her eyes and a smile to her face. Robb read her letter too, causing a smile to grace his own face.

“Sansa doesn’t know we’re alive. All she knows is that an ‘unknown assailant’ freed the survivors of the Red Wedding from their cells, I made sure of that.” Arya informed them.

“Good. If the world thinks me and mother dead, best remain that way.”

Arya agreed, having learned over her years in Kingslanding, Harrenhall and Braavos that words can have the potential to travel far and wide, often reaching the wrong ears.

“Sansa instructed us to leave the Twins as soon as possible, with a party that attracts minimal attention, there are lions lurking in the woods.”

 

Robb and Catelyn nodded, _and with that plans for their departure were put into motion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to any of those who have chosen to continue reading this story, despite my ridiculous habits when it comes to writing. The past few months have been really stressful thanks to school and I've basically been studying non-stop. Exams have finished for now, so in the next few months I'll try and update the story more frequently. Please comment! Comments brighten up my day X


	6. Hope

**Winterfell**

 

 

_A few weeks later_

 

 

_The Lady of Winterfell_

_The Northern party has departed from the castle of the Twins and are expected to arrive_ within _one moon’s turn._

 _Signed,_ Maester _Brennet_

_The Twins_

 

Sansa Stark had received Maester Brennet’s raven several weeks ago, and the Lady anxiously awaited the arrival of the Northern prisoners.

 _Will they be broken?_ She found herself wondering one day, _will their days and months and years in cells bend and bow them_? She had shaken her head at that; _no…_ _I survived. I survived in my own cells, my cell in Kingslanding, my cell in Littlefinger’s traps and his sly kisses, and my cell in my own castle,_ _with a monster as my_   _prison guard_.

 

Sansa sighed, knowing the Littlefinger was still slithering around in her home, hiding in the shadows, scheming, lurking, waiting. Sansa Stark understood that she needed to be prepared, to do some waiting herself so she could anticipate whatever moves Baelish could make. _He hasn’t taken an interest in Bran, it seems_ , Sansa noted, recalling the events of the past weeks, _perhaps my brother scared him off with his strange wisdom,_ Sansa proposed, smiling a little at that. _He scared me,_ _that’s for sure._

She shuddered then, still feeling immense discomfort at her brother’s words to her after their conversation in Godswood.

 _“And you looked so beautiful… in your white wedding dress._ ”

Shivers crawled up her spine. _What has my brother become? Is my brother even in there anymore, or is he truly just the ‘Three Eyed Raven’ now?... whatever that_ _means…_

 

After Bran’s- _or the person who used to Bran’s_ \- return, Sansa constantly found herself wondering, wishing for Arya to return, despite having a strong feeling that her wild sister had long since died. But still… just imagining another family member, who was still somewhat the same and not a new, scary person, returning made Sansa feel happy, even if it was just momentary joy. _No_! She would tell herself, _it’s naïve to believe Arya is alive! Old Sansa was silly, naïve and a dreamer, but not_ _you_. Yet, Sansa dreamed about Arya and her return regardless, wanting escape from Bran and Littlefinger and the stupid white walkers. _Would I recognise her?_ Sansa doubted it, knowing that Arya would be a woman grown if still alive. _Would she be different?_ The answer, to Sansa was obvious; yes. But how different, she didn’t know.

 

 

**XxX**

 

 

After an entire day of listening to complaints, checking grain supplies, writing letters and observing the production of armour, Sansa found Brienne in the training yard.

She had a question on her mind.

“Hello Brienne.” Sansa greeted her companion, who had previously knocked Podrick Payne into the snow, repeatedly.

Brienne smiled in response, “My Lady.”

“Do you remember telling me about the time you saw Arya?”

Brienne nodded.

“You said she was with someone… a man and that he hadn’t hurt her. Who was he? You never said.”

“I didn’t tell you because I thought it would worry you… when I found you, you had gone through enough already.”

She sighed. “I wish to know, Brienne.”

Brienne paused, “It was the Hound.”

That shocked Sansa; all that time, Sandor had been travelling with her wolf blooded little sister? However, Brienne was wrong. It didn’t worry her.

“That doesn’t worry me, Brienne.” Sansa said, “Sandor Clegane, though rude and unpleasant, was probably one of the only honest people I ever met in Kingslanding. I was young and he frightened me so… but looking back, Sandor helped me a great deal. After the Battle of the Blackwater, he apparently decided to say ‘fuck the King’ straight to Joffrey’s face and leave his service. After, he found me cowering in my chambers. He offered to take me with him, out of Kingslanding… I said no, telling him that Kingslanding was my home… I was so stupid, I regret not going with him.”

“My Lady, you were a child.” Brienne said sympathetically.

“Arya was younger than me, but she clearly had the sense to stay with him.”

“You don’t know that, My Lady.”

Sansa nodded.

“I’m just grateful that he had the chance to assist one of us.”

 

 

**XxX**

 

 

On her way back to her chambers, Sansa stopped outside the Godswood.

Normally, she avoided the place like the plague ever since her brother’s return. What he had said to her, by the heart tree, his eyes cold, empty of compassion… or any emotion at all, scared her, more than she liked to admit. But today, after her conversation with Brienne, Sansa felt different, optimistic…almost. She felt her feet leading her through the trees of the Godswood, tugging her towards the place where she used to come every day, to pray for a prince to ride South with her or to play with Arya or Bran.

And, despite knowing that she would sound too much like her old self by saying so, Sansa quietly muttered, “Perhaps there is still some Bran left inside the person who looks like my brother.”

 

Walking into the clearing, Sansa looked up to the branches that once were adorned with green leaves and had golden jets of sunlight shining through, lighting up the forest and creating an atmosphere of magic that she and her siblings loved. Now, the branches were boundlessly bare, and instead of golden beams of dancing light, icy flakes of snow dropped through. It was dark, and the once bright Godswood was now cloaked in grey and black shadows, with shades of blue streaked over the trees, giving the place a strange atmosphere. When she was a child, Sansa Stark would sometimes forget herself and run around in these woods with her siblings, and though she didn’t always get along with some of her brothers and very rarely with her one wilful little sister, her memories of the Godswood were always bright and sunny. Today, if she ran in this place, she would trip.

 _Games are for Summer children_ , she thought sadly, realising that so many children born in Winter amongst frost and ice and fear would never get the chance to feel so happy or so free as she once had.

 

Lost in her melancholy thoughts, Sansa had all but forgotten why she had braved to venture in the woods in the first place; _Bran_.

Slowly casting her eyes downwards, she saw him, propped up against the Weirwood tree, below its carved face, his eyes an eerie milky white. She had seen her brother in a trance before, but that didn’t stop the sight from unsettling her.

Ignoring her discomfort, Sansa sat down and waited for her brother Bran to return. When he finally did so, much to Sansa’s dismay, Bran looked at her, a clear expression of shock on his face.

She felt relieved at first, seeing some emotion on her brother’s usually expressionless, cold face, but then she saw the utter horror in his eyes and the relief flooded away.

“Bran?” He said nothing.

“What did you see?”

For a moment, he continued his silence, before quickly responding with, “Just a vision from Kingslanding.” And looking at his feet.

“Bran… I can tell you’re lying. Please, we can talk about what you saw; I could help you!”

Bran looked at her again, an unreadable expression appearing on his face, and then he said, “I saw the Red Wedding.”

Sansa winced, suddenly not wanting to hear anymore details of what happened at the Twins. Yet, despite the anguish she was feeling, she forced herself to find out more; _perhaps I will find Bran_.

“Tell me more, I… I want to know what the Freys did to them.”

“No, you don’t.” He responded matter-of-factly, and Sansa felt almost silly for thinking the lie would just slip past her all-seeing brother.

“You don’t want to know... but I’m going to show you.”

At his words, Sansa felt immense panic sweep into her body, “No! Why-how? Bran… I don’t want to-see… please, Bran! Just tell me!” She was pleading, but he didn’t care.

“You would not believe me otherwise. You’re scared of hope, Sansa. You’re scared of being the girl who dreamed of princes and being queen and a life in the South.”

Once again, his words rang true for Sansa, but all she could do was protest, “What hope Bran? Mother and Robb died there! What hope?”

Bran said nothing in response. Instead, he grabbed her wrist in a quick motion and before Sansa could protest, she was no longer in the Godswood. She wasn’t in Winterfell either;

 

She and Bran were standing in a castle, in a room lit by flaming torches mounted on its walls. Sansa, still stunned looked around and saw people sitting on benches around several long tables with steaming plates of food on them. The people were all laughing and dancing, many of them in drunken states. But regardless of the merry atmosphere, Sansa knew where she was, and she wanted to shout and scream knowing it.

_The Red Wedding._

She had heard so many stories about the event, and now was here, being forced to witness it.

A lump formed in Sansa’s throat when she spotted Robb sitting close by, a woman sitting even closer to him.

_Talisa, or the ‘foreign whore’ as some Lords had called Robb’s wife._

_But she looks so beautiful, and so kind… and they look so happy together._ Sansa knew they were in love. And in that moment, Sansa wanted to scream at him, _“Don’t love her, Robb! It’s a trap and you’ll both die!”_

Robb lovingly felt her stomach, and Sansa’s feeling of dread only increased in that moment as she remembered that Talisa was pregnant with her brother’s child, _her niece_ , when the wedding happened.

“Bran, please. I want to go.” Sansa demanded, tearing her eyes away from her smiling older brother and his pregnant wife.

“We must stay. You will not believe otherwise.”

Sansa was becoming impatient now, and she could feel tears threatening to run down her cheeks, “Believe what, that they died? Because I already believe that, you don’t need visions to figure that one out!”

“Just watch.”

She wanted to slap some sense into Bran, but instead, Sansa Stark turned back to the wedding guests, this time focusing on a woman a few rows behind. She had Sansa’s auburn hair, and her blue eyes, but while Sansa was feeling fear and sadness, her mother Catelyn Stark was smiling at Robb.

“Mother!” She called out, wanting to run towards her like a child.

“She can’t see us. The ink is dry.” Bran informed Sansa.

 

So, Sansa could do nothing as she helplessly watched her mother converse with the man beside her who had the same eyes that tortured Sansa every night in her dreams- _Ramsay Bolton’s eyes_. Realising that the ice cold blue eyes belonged to Roose Bolton, a new twist formed in Sansa’s stomach. _He is the one who killed_ _Robb!_

 

An unpleasant voice from behind Sansa distracted her from Roose Bolton and Sansa turned to face the man speaking. He was old and wrinkled, and his face was as unpleasant as his voice, and Sansa knew it was Walder Frey.

And that’s when Sansa heard it- The Rains of Castamere- the same song played at Joffrey’s wedding, the song about Tywin Lannister’ victory, just as the Red Wedding was in everyone’s minds. Chills ran up her spine, but no one else seemed to notice-except her mother. Catelyn was standing up, concern all over her face as she watched the guards close the doors and the Lannister song fill her ears during a Tully wedding. Then, her mother leant towards Roose Bolton, and lifted his sleeve up, revealing chain mail underneath. Her mother slapped Roose in the face and screamed, “Robb!”

 

The room descended into chaos. Blood and bleeding bodies were everywhere, including Talisa, now lifelessly on the floor with blood spewing from her womb. And though Sansa knew her death was coming, it broke her heart none the less. Robb was bowed over her, hand on her stomach once more, only this time his hand was soaked in her and his child’s blood.

Soon, eyes wide with horror, Sansa was watching her mother hold a knife to Lady Frey’s throat, begging for Lord Walder to let Robb go.

“I’ll find another.”

Her heart sank, preparing herself for the moment their deaths would come, wishing she could just close her eyes rather than force herself to keep them open and see everything.

The room was still, with Robb and mother standing motionless, _like they’d given up._ The only movement Sansa could detect were the footsteps of Roose Bolton, a dagger clutched in his hand. _Soon, that dagger will be in Robb’s heart,_ Sansa thought with anguish as she tried to prepare herself for the sight of her family collapsing to the floor.

_Goodbye Robb,_

She was crying now,

_Goodbye mother…_

 

And then, she froze. Not because Robb was lying crumpled in a heap on the floor, a dagger in his heart, but because the dagger was in Roose Bolton’s neck, not Robb’s, Roose Bolton fell to the floor, not Robb and Bolton’s scarlet blood stained the floor, while Robb remained standing, looking as shocked as Sansa was.

“Take them to the dungeons.”

 

Sansa remained still for what felt like hours, feeling numb as she realised it was all a lie… _my mother’s body in the river, Grey wind’s head mounted on Robb’s_ _corpse…LIES!_

Her mother and brother are … not dead.

 

When she finally found the words to speak, she had so many things she wanted to say, but the one question she managed to utter in her state of dismay was, “Are they coming to Winterfell?”

Her words sounded angry, accusing but Sansa was sure she felt happy. She wanted to ask quietly but her voice had sounded so demanding and desperate. So many emotions were piling into her head and Sansa realised she didn’t know what to feel, or how to communicate because her mind was a mess, a convoluted, intricate mess, with thoughts containing all sorts of feelings swirling and storming in her head.

Sansa’s brain was in such a state of disarray that she didn’t even hear her brother’s answer to her question the first time.

“Sansa?” Bran said, nonchalantly tapping her on the shoulder and making sure he had her attention his time, “Yes. They will arrive within one week.”

Sansa asked another question, finding some control over her tone as she spoke “Who freed them?”

“The same person who killed the Freys.”

“Can… can I see?”

Bran replied by grabbing her wrist once again.

 

Sansa opened her eyes. For a moment, she was confused; as she looked around, she saw a mass of corpses piled up and scattered around the hall of the Twins, blood stained everywhere.

“Bran… we’re still at the Red Wedding.”

Then, Sansa turned around to where Lord Walder had sat during the massacre, only to be greeted by his corpse limply hanging from the wall. His throat had been slit. But that wasn’t why her eyes widened at the sight; behind him, on the wall, the words _THE NORTH REMEMBERS_ were written… _in blood._ And though she didn’t want to admit it, Sansa Stark felt a swell of pride inside her as her eyes were graced by those angry red letters…

“Where’s his face?” Sansa asked, realizing Lord Walder’s wrinkled, unpleasant visage was missing.

Bran didn’t answer her.

Sansa was so distracted by the canvas of blood in front of her that she had failed to see the figure that stood just below the faceless corpse and the words.

She was a woman, and the sight of her took Sansa’s breath away. She was beautiful. Her hair was brown, falling in wild curls, accentuating her long face and sharp cheekbones.

 _But her eyes…_ they were grey, like a storm, or like hard steel- they were angry, _or pained_ \- Sansa couldn’t quite tell.

Sansa let out a sob.

She knew those grey eyes.

 _Father… but these eyes..._  they were full of something Ned Stark’s eyes never possessed; wrath, rage. Sansa had never seen eyes so full of hate, not even her own. But Sansa had only known three people with those eyes, and her father was dead, and Jon was at Dragonstone, and so this person had to be… _Arya_.

“Oh gods… Bran she’s alive!” Sansa cried, gazing at her sister in a strange awe.

And though Sansa couldn’t tear her eyes away from Arya, she was sure that from the corner of her eye, she saw Bran smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY!   
> As my last chapter was short, this one is much longer than normal :)   
> As always, leave a comment, I love a good comment.   
> I'll be back soon X

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I have always wanted to write an alternate Red Wedding fic because who DOESN'T want happy Starks? I do not know when Chapter 2 will be posted but I DO know that comments and reviews keep me going, so please write a response to Chapter 1, I would very much appreciate that.


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